White Knights and Bad Days
by starry19
Summary: 2x01 Tag - "He hadn't tried to stop her tears earlier. Had just been there to hold her. She needed to let it out, needed some sort of catharsis, even if it was temporary. Holding it all in, holding it all together…she was going to shatter. He thought he could already see the cracks."


AN: Wow, we're back with Season 2! Was this my favorite episode? Nope (that goes to World's Columbian Exposition), but it was still excellent. I think this entire season is going to be brutally and gloriously full of angst and I love it already. This piece isn't my favorite, but I admit to being desperately rusty as far as writing goes, and I promise to do better later. I'll shut up now - hope you enjoy!

 **White Knights and Bad Days**

He despised seeing Lucy like this. She was like a ghost, a shell of her true self. She made all the right noises, talked through battle plans with the rest of them, but from time to time, her eyes would go terrifyingly blank, her shoulders slumping.

It wasn't an overt thing, nothing anyone would notice if they weren't watching her.

Of course, _he_ was watching her.

Had hardly taken his eyes off of her since he'd saved her from her own damn mother.

Speaking of…that was another giant mess to sort through. Lucy had told them all the bare minimum of facts, spoken in a flat tone of voice. There was a great deal she was holding back, but even a blind person could tell tonight wasn't the time to press for details.

She had broken down, briefly, in his arms before. He knew enough about PTSD and straight-up grief to realize it wasn't going to be the last time.

He hadn't tried to stop her tears earlier. Had just been there to hold her. She needed to let it out, needed some sort of catharsis, even if it was temporary. Holding it all in, holding it all together…she was going to shatter.

He thought he could already see the cracks.

What she needed, at least for tonight, was to sleep. Well, he figured she probably needed a few stiff drinks, but since that wasn't really an option, sleep would have to do.

It wasn't going well.

Pretending to sleep himself, one narrow cot away from hers, he knew she was wide awake. Had some idea of the thoughts playing out in her extraordinary mind.

He remembered the very first time he had killed a man and had _known_ it. Before, in combat, it was difficult to tell if his shot was the one that had ended a life, or if it had been the soldier next to him. The enemy had been nameless, faceless, engaged from a safe distance. Until one night, they weren't.

He had thrown up when they'd gotten back to their base, and his commanding officer had poured him a whiskey.

"It'll get easier," he'd said. "Though I don't think that's necessarily a good thing."

He had been right. On both counts.

There was a soft rustling from where Lucy lay, and in the dimness, he saw her sit up, wrap her arms around her knees. In another second, he heard a shaking intake of breath.

He was willing to let her sort out her demons alone, if that was what she wanted, but he wasn't going to let her cry by herself.

"Lucy," he said quietly, voice rough.

There was a pause, too long. "Yeah?" she asked, trying and failing to sound casual.

He hesitated, then shook his head. "Come here."

She waited another moment, then he relaxed as she swung her legs down. He turned on his side, the absolute only way this was going to work in this narrow, army-issued cot, then held out his arms.

Lucy slipped into his embrace, breath going out of her as he drew her close, her back against his front.

"You're freezing," he murmured into her hair. Shock would do that to a person.

"You're not," she whispered back, and he felt his lips twitch.

They were silent for several minutes, both adjusting to this new situation. He trailed his fingertips down her arm once, twice.

"We need to talk about something," he said, softly.

She sighed. "God, Wyatt, please," she replied. "Please, I don't want to talk about my mom, or Rittenhouse, or-"

"It's not about any of that," he interrupted. "Not directly." He took a breath. "It's about the little plan you came up with. Involving hand grenades and the Mothership." He forced himself to keep his embrace gentle, though he could feel his muscles tense as he once again considered her asinine idea.

"It was a good plan," she said, voice devoid of any inflection.

"It was not," he argued. "And let me tell you why." He waited, making sure he had all of her attention. "Lucy, I am always coming to save you. No matter what. No matter how hopeless the situation seems. I'll be there. You _do not_ get to sacrifice yourself."

Her fingers wrapped around his. "You were dead, Wyatt," she said, very quietly.

He shook his head. "Don't believe everything you read," he told her. "Besides, even if I was, you'd better believe I'd still find a way. Always."

His voice changed, and some of the anger - anger at _her-_ that had been simmering beneath the surface rose. He'd kept it tamped down, first out of sheer relief that she was alive and unhurt, and then in deference to the mission and her fragile emotional state. But God knew when the next opportunity they would get to talk like this would be, and he would _not_ let her go in the field again without being explicitly heard.

"Christ, woman. I was climbing the walls here, losing my damn mind trying to get to you. I tried to cut my way out of the bunker with an angle grinder, for God's sake. And there you were, quietly making plans to kill yourself!"

She rolled to face him, eyes shining in the dimness.

Abruptly, the anger left him. "Jessica was missing for three weeks before…before she was found," he said, and he felt her go absolutely still. "Three weeks. I knew it, though. I knew she was dead after the first day. After, I spent more than one night with a gun in my mouth. Damned if I know why I didn't pull the trigger." He ran a hand through his hair. "Lucy, I just waited six weeks to know if you were dead or alive."

Carefully, she reached over and touched his face. He kissed her palm. "Six weeks. And now you tell me that if I had been one damn day later, I would have lost you, too. And this time…this time it would have killed me."

He was being painfully honest. It _would_ have killed him. He had barely made it out alive after Jessica, and for a second, he could taste the cold metal of a .9mm again, his finger rock-steady on the trigger. It had been a bad time. He didn't know if this would be worse, didn't know if anything _could_ be worse - Jess had been his wife, for God's sake, but it certainly wouldn't have been better. Lucy was the reason that for the first time in five years, he was actually looking forward to the next day and not being slightly disappointed every time he woke up. The reason that he had cautiously allowed himself to hope, to confess things to her that he'd never dreamed he'd say to anyone again.

"Wyatt," she breathed.

"So listen up," he said, voice steadier. "No matter what, you are not allowed to make that decision. Ever. Am I absolutely clear on this?"

She held his eyes for a second, but then nodded, slowly.

"Good," he said, firmly. "Now go to sleep."

Lucy gave a breathless half-snort that he figured was as close to laughter as he was going to get, but resettled herself, her head in the crook of his arm. He tugged the standard-grade wool blanket up to her shoulders, his arm draping across her waist.

He wondered if Jiya was going to interrupt them this time. Not that he was planning on kissing her now. In fact, he shouldn't have been planning on kissing her _then_. Really, he supposed he hadn't been. He'd been too wrapped up in her pain, and then brutally aware of how vulnerable he was considering making himself to this woman.

To Rufus, he had refused to admit he loved her. That was too much of a risk. Once the words were out, there was no going back.

Besides, if anyone was going to get to hear him say it, it should be Lucy first.

Lucy, who had turned her face up to his with such brokenness and pain in her gaze that he would have done anything in his power to make her feel better. Kissing her certainly fell under that purview.

And now she was going to fall asleep in his arms. Strange, that pressing his lips to hers for a few seconds seemed intensely more intimate than this. It wasn't, not really, and yet, it was as if a kiss, even a small one, was some sort of signal to the universe.

But the last thing Lucy needed now was more uncertainty and upheaval, and wondering about some sort of…relationship status would be another layer of it. No, it was far better that they had stopped. Even if he hadn't been particularly thrilled about it at the time, on the cusp of taking her bottom lip between his, fingers in her hair, finally, _finally_ giving in to whatever was between them.

Her lips would have been salty from tears and soft and a little desperate. _"I've lost everything,"_ she'd whispered.

She hadn't. He meant what he'd said - she hadn't lost him, _couldn't_ lose him. Not now. She was hurt and afraid and as fragile as a butterfly's wing, and he would do everything he could to keep her safe.

Absently, he traced a finger over her collarbone. She'd lost weight in the past six weeks. Stress, grief, a bitter combination of the two. She had been too thin before this, and now she was as insubstantial as dandelion fluff. Unfortunately, the current food situation left a lot to be desired, and he took a moment to have a brief and stupid fantasy about pizza. Or spaghetti.

Or really, just not being in this damn bunker to start with.

Although, he considered, eyes on the woman next to him, it did have some perks. Still, a queen sized bed and a shower that wasn't a relic from the Cold War would be a definite plus.

"Wyatt?"

He blinked, startled out of his rambling thoughts by her quiet voice.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

He blinked again. "What for?"

He felt her shrug a little. "Making you worry. Making you angry. All of the above."

More centered now, peaceful after the last half hour of holding her, he took her apology in stride. Lightly, he took her hand, so much smaller than his, and raised her knuckles to his mouth. "It's alright," he murmured. "It's not like you were on some vacation the last six weeks either."

"Well, I at least had better food," she said, an attempt at teasing that made him feel better about her current emotional state, even though they both knew she hadn't tried to eat a thing since she'd been back. He did manage a smile, a genuine one, even if it was small.

"We'll put you on KP duty and then we'll see," he warned, tucking her back into his side. This bed was _not_ comfortable, there was definitely _not_ room for both of them to get into any sort of relaxing position, but he was _not_ moving, so they were just going to have to make the best of it.

Her hand pressed against his chest.

God, had it only been 24 hours ago that he'd laid here, trying not to wonder if she was dead, knowing the only way he could keep going was the faith that she was out there somewhere, that she needed him?

And now…

The world was still the epic disaster it had been the day before.

But she was here, she was still his, and in the morning, she would be the first thing he saw.

He'd had worse days.


End file.
